The Return of Pulp, a Serious Band That Doesn’t Take Itself Seriously

Jarvis Cocker can opine. The mop-topped, bespectacled frontman of Pulp, the beloved Britpop act, is in demand as a conversationalist for the canny turns of phrase and pungent references that also animate his lyrics.

Get him into a room with his bandmates — he and the three longest-running members had gathered last month at the Barbican Center in central London to talk about their newest album — and he will gladly unspool about what undergirds pop (“repressed feelings”) and the unexpected strife of band life: “You can’t get insurance! It’s loads more expensive for a musician.”

Then there’s the threat posed by streaming. “We’re in a situation now where you could live your whole life without ever listening to a piece of music more than evvel; you can just let it all just go past you, in a kind of scented candle vibe,” he said with horror.

Pulp, as the name suggests, is more visceral than that, with wryly observed dance-floor anthems that explore the social pecking order, like the enduring 1995 track “Common People.” What “made Pulp songs interesting,” Cocker said he realized lately, is that “they’re often quite frantic, trying to get some idea across or to work something out in your mind. Hysterical, sometimes, almost.”

That propelled them through their ’90s heyday, anyway. But “More,” Pulp’s first record in nearly a quarter-century, out June 6, has a different thrust: more introspective, more room to breathe. When he played it in the offices of Rough Trade, Pulp’s label, “Someone said, oh, that’s very age appropriate,” Cocker, 61, recalled. “I took it as a compliment.”

Sitting around a long conference table at the Barbican, the cultural center where they had gigged over the years, his bandmates — Candida Doyle, the keyboardist; Mark Webber, the guitarist; and Nick Banks, the drummer — mostly jibed with their songwriter and semi-democratic leader. But they did sometimes laugh (affectionately) at him.